and neither of them ever mention that it is love
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: The reality of his universe comes in colours, all vivid, beautiful, and painfully tangible; a spectrum tinged in hues from gold to pink to frozen azure. (And it's over sixteen years and a childhood peaking at the age of five, that Tsukishima Kei finally learns about emotions, and the memory that comes along with the feeling of each one.) \\ TsukkiYama. Magic Realism. AU.


**At last I have finally finished this _You give me so many emotions!AU_ where people well, bottle up their emotions and give it to others (lol no shit im horrible at explaining). So you receive emotions from others in the form of a bottle as your way of learning and "experiencing" them first-hand. However, once you receive the said bottle of feelings, it then becomes your responsibility to nurture that. It is up to you to determine the outcome of its contents. The resulting colour is basically the general feeling you associate with the person who gave you the flask in the first place; hence, leading its initial colour to bleed into a new colour as time passes, or instantly transform in the case that a sudden life-changing event occurs. The phase/state of the contents may vary depending on the length of time that said feelings have been harboured; generally, however, you can classify it like this: children are associated with gas, teens with liquid, and adults with solids - it freezes into something like crystal or ice. **

_**This was prompted to me by the very very verrryyy wonderful afternoon_rain and I know I've said this a dozen times already but thank you so much for everything Hal from giving me permission to work on your AU to helping me whenever i got stuck and tormented by laziness/writer's block to spazzing together with me over the colour pink to inspiring me to work hard in writing/finishing this :') u r the greatest fangirl fujoshi bff a girl could ever ask for hihi :3c**_

 **Disclaimer : I don't own Haikyuu.**

* * *

The first thing they give him is happiness.

Kei is five years old on a summer day, spending the break at their mother's ancestral home in Kanagawa. It's like a quaint family reunion of sorts – his relatives all huddled around a table, exchanging looks and gifts and anecdotes to pass the time. Kei doesn't do much for these sorts of events, and walks away to the guest bedroom in hopes of going to sleep. He stumbles upon his grandfather sitting at the side of the open hallway, and the shuffle of his footsteps on the planked wooden floors suddenly reaches a halt. The old man rises from his place on the porch.

"Come, little one. I've got something I'd like to show you."

Wordlessly, the little boy nods and acquiesces. He takes his elder's hand and together they walk to the garden. It's a waxing gibbous that reigns over the sky, and though it may be dim, flitting orbs aglow surround them and light up their path. His grandfather captures two, cups them in his palms, and houses them in a jar with a punctured lid. Kei tries to do the same, with only half the success rate.

Now, he need not wax poetic about fireflies – of the humble buzz of their wings or the shine of their bosoms, lightning gold on a starless night. Kei's only just five, and however smart a boy he may be, he doesn't quite have the capacity nor the vocabulary to express his appreciation as vividly as he'd like. Instead, he cups them in the jar, craning his neck to see the quaint radiance of these creatures – small, feeble, fragile – and takes in the beauty of them just as they are.

"They're really pretty, _Jii-san."_

"Yep, they sure are. But do you know what else is pretty?"

"Dinosaurs!" the child says, a smile lighting up his face as he grins from ear to ear. "I really like the T-Rex. Did you know, _Jii-san,_ the T means something else? It's real name is the _Ty…Tyrant...Tyrann…Tyrranicalsaurus-Rex_ —"

His grandfather chuckles at the remark, and replies, "I think you mean _Tyrannosaurus-Rex,_ Kei."

"Oh. Yeah," the little boy giggles. He has his mother's laugh. "That one."

"Well…yes, dinosaurs may be er, _pretty_ …Kei. But I've got something else for you that's just as pretty, if not even more, here." He fumbles through his trouser pockets and procures a reagent bottle no larger than a third of his hands. The flask body is rounded and stout, and the neck tapers thinly towards the mouth. Kei thinks of magic potions and that movie _Frankenstein_ with the mad scientists and he wonders if his grandfather is secretly working as one of them too.

"Different emotions lead to different colours," the elder explains as he crouches down and rests a hand atop the child's head, ruffling the blond's hair gently, "and in time you will understand what each of them mean. The intensities may vary as do your emotions, and the older you become, the more solid these contents may take shape. You are still just a child, Kei, so I can only give you this much for now, but I hope that as time goes on and you age through the years, you may learn more about our world as you nurture your emotions, and let its contents grow. Perhaps even overflow. There are good feelings and bad feelings, and it's a given that you will have your fair share of both, but I hope that you may find that the positives outnumber your negatives as you live your life. Strengthen them so that they may strengthen you."

" _Jii-san?"_ he mutters quietly, hesitant, but the old man only nudges him softly before handing him the carafe and telling him to look closer. He accepts it and cradles it in his hand – two palms and ten stubby fingers wrapped around the glass– and peers inside.

The container shines a bright citrine before his eyes, a swirling mist that resembles star shine and flaxen hair, canary gold and sweetened honey. Kei thinks of the Tuscan sun at dawn, of his mother's blonde hair, of butter on toast and daffodil fields. He thinks of family, of home, and of this little bottle of yellow.

"Is this a firefly? Is it a firefly's soul? Is this the firefly's spirit?"

"No, my darling boy," his grandfather wraps the child's smaller hands in his – a gentle reminder to hold on and never let go – and smiles. "It is happiness."

=X=

He is ten when he first learns what it feels like to hold a volleyball in his hands; the firmness of the rubber and the bruising motion as it hits his skin.

"Not like that, Kei. Put your arms out in front of you and straighten them, then lower your hips and send it off with your whole body like this," his brother instructs and adjusts his position, before stepping back and tossing it to him again. "Follow it with your eyes and then receive. Don't be afraid of the ball."

He strikes a good hit and the ball goes flying, bouncing off of his wrists and leaping towards the sky.

"See? What'd I tell ya?"

They practice serves and receives for a good two hours, before the morning sun gives way to noontime skies, and the sweltering heat is more than enough to bring their playing session to a halt. Akiteru nabs a pitcher from their fridge and pours some juice to replenish them, while Kei sits at the edge of the porch and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the collar of his shirt.

"Just a few more tries and once you've mastered how to do serves and receives, I can teach you how to spike and block afterwards!"

"Eh?" Kei whines, "But they're so hard. There's no way I can master them! I'm not good at this like you are, _Nii-chan_."

"Hey, don't say that," his brother chides while handing Kei a glass, which the younger gratefully accepts. "Why do you think I got to be as good as I am now, Kei?"

"I dunno…" he cocks his head in askance, "because you just _are_?"

Akiteru shakes his head. "Nope. Greatness can't be achieved right away, Kei. It's because I practice."

"Yeah, but—"

"Listen. I'm not saying it's impossible…we all have dreams, but it just takes a little while before you get there," his brother shoots him an encouraging grin and pats him on the back gently. He rests his hand atop the other's, fingers splayed on the wooden surface. "Think about it this way: just because you can shoot a ball doesn't make you a world-class Olympian. Just like how simply reading notes cannot make you a musician. Pick up a pen and think of the prospects. Anyone can write; anyone can draw. But that doesn't mean they'll be artists at once. It all takes time, brother. Time to nurture; time to grow. Do you understand?"

Kei nods and looks him straight in the eye. Akiteru's smile grows wider and he fishes out a bottle from the rear pocket of his shorts. It's admiration encapsulated in a cloud that swirls underneath the sunlight, tinged bright blue and aquamarine, a reflection of the sea and rolling tides at dawn, clear and vast like the empyrean hovering above them.

"Here," he says and drops it in the smaller boy's right hand. "Take this and remember, Kei, everyone has talent, but you gotta cultivate it to make it something real."

=X=

He is walking home from elementary school when he stumbles upon a gang of fellow fifth graders bullying a child. The victim is a boy with freckled skin and brown – perhaps even green – hair, all fragile limbs and a scrawny figure. They laugh haughtily to mock his pride, jeering and insisting that the little boy be put on backpack duty. He overhears the shouts of ' _useless'_ and ' _what a_ _crybaby'_ as he catches sight of them shoving the smaller child down onto the ground. Bottles of contempt are tossed in his direction, miasma leaking out the aperture and pooling around them, murky brown dissipating into the air and enveloping their small frames. Tears spill from the little boy's eyes and snot dribbles down from his nose but Kei sees that the small child can do nothing to save himself from his plight. It's a pitiful sight, really.

"Hey! What're you looking at?!" one of them hollers towards his direction. There's a hesitant whisper of ' _Oh hey cut it out, isn't he a sixth grader?'_ which is promptly cut off with a steadfast retort of ' _As if! He's that guy in class 3!'_ Kei watches from the sidelines for a moment, speechless, and perhaps stunned.

"Pathetic," is the only word that manages to first come to mind.

"The heck?!" the bullies snap and call his attention. Kei inches closer and towers over him, answering back with a glaring ' _What?'_ and sending the gang running from intimidation and fear. One of them dishes out an insult, tossing him yet another brown caster while calling his glasses lame and him a dummy, but Kei doesn't really care much for such petty words and pays them no mind.

He stumbles across the boy again two days later in front of the gymnasium entrance, just as he walks in to greet the team.

"Ah, h-hey!" the little boy shouts, and Kei turns around to face him. "Thank you very much for the other day!"

Kei catches a glimpse of glass in the boy's left hand, clutched by trembling fingers, gripping onto it so tightly his knuckles turn white. The boy bows reverently, figure bent a perfect ninety degrees, and Kei is struck by momentary surprise that he fails to decipher the shade of its contents.

"Uh, have we met before?"

The boy splutters at his response, hastily shoving the container back into his pocket ( _Oh, so it wasn't for me,_ Kei realizes abashedly, partially embarrassed for his conceited way of thinking.) and after a while manages to remind him about the incident at the park. The boy tells him about his dreams to play a sport, mumbling things about soccer and baseball and overwhelmingly tough guys, and how volleyball seemed to be his best bet, before his eyes go wide and he gives out another enthusiastic shock-inducing shout, this time about Kei's hand-me-down sports shoes. They get to talk about his brother: of Akiteru's days as a wing spiker, and how he is now training to be the ace of Karasuno. Kei tries to downplay it for humility's sake, but the sparkle in the boy's eyes is enough proof that he has been moved by the taller boy's words.

"Wow! Aces are really cool!"

Kei feels his cheeks warm at the thought, and he mumbles a soft, smug, "Yeah, I guess," before he heads off to practice with the rest of the team.

(One week later, during a pre-session announcement given by one of their instructors, Kei discovers that the boy has signed up to join their team's training program for the little league. It is also during this period that he finally discovers the boy's name: Yamaguchi Tadashi.

It's a nice name, and Kei ponders on the idea that perhaps one day, the boy may grow up to be as strong and firm as the mountains he's been named after.)

=X=

Eleven is an age when Kei finds that not all things are destined to stay the same, where people and emotions are subject to change, and that not all change is meant to happen for the better.

There's a hollow in his chest and tightness in his throat, and Kei feels a sickening feeling crawl up his stomach as his eyes scan the court but finds none of these players' figures to be familiar. Fists shaking, pupils constricting; every resounding spike is like a strike against his skin, drawing blood and tears and the bitter sting of memories they've forged over the years, amidst balustrades of deception, like threads spun with lies and well-woven conceit.

"See? The one on the left is the third year, Kawada-kun, and on the other side is the second-year ace they've been calling the 'Little Giant' for about a year now!" his classmate exclaims and nearly thrusts the magazine towards his face. It doesn't faze him in the slightest. Nothing does at this point, really. Yamaguchi shoves the guy aside with a loud, exasperated _'We get it!'_ and softer, more plaintive, ' _We can tell just by looking.'_

Kei stops listening to them quarrel, casting his gaze upwards in hopes of turning to face them and uttering a response – _because there's no need for Yamaguchi to act like his spokesperson now of all times, he hadn't hired him to do that, and it wasn't fair to make the boy take up the job of speaking for them both, right?_ – but the words die at the tip of his tongue as he catches sight of his brother at the other end of the bleachers. Akiteru, too, is frozen in a state of mid-shock and for a moment, it feels as though they've been caught in a standstill in time, in a whirlwind of regrets and pitch-brown betrayal.

Once again, ' _pathetic'_ is the only word that manages to first come to mind.

(They both reach home fighting back tears. Akiteru loses it by the time he reaches his bedroom, locking himself in and curling up on the floor, fists pounding on the wooden surface. His heart is glass and so is his resolve, and his brother is no more than a broken soul; like garbage tossed aside, or scrap eaten off by crows. Kei can only listen to his brother's muffled cries – a sordid cacophony of gurgling noises and frame-wracking sobs – as he lingers by his doorway, a small flask clutched by trembling hands, a desperate child willing for the muddied mist to revert to its former blue hue. _Please,_ he begs amidst his steadily blurring eyes, _please please please go back—_ )

(It doesn't happen.)

=X=

Time heals most things, but not all, and Kei finds himself signing up for the volleyball team as soon as he enters Karasuno in his first year of high school. To be honest, he isn't quite sure what's driving him to cling onto this sport for so long. He doesn't exactly like volleyball _per se,_ but he does consider the prospects of writing it up for his resume. It'll boost his applications for university, at least that much is certain, and it is precisely for that reason that he decides to stick around. Convenience. Perhaps even pride.

It's a rocky start both for him and the team.

He first meets the freak quick duo on a chilly spring night. They are practicing tosses and receives beneath dim streetlamps, and Kei catches the ball before the orange-haired boy manages to settle himself into position mid-receive. The boy – Hinata Shouyo, he learned from the third years at club earlier that day – shoots him a disgruntled look and a startled gasp at his height.

Yamaguchi cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, gloating about centimeters and measurements. That doesn't help either of their cases, and it earns him a quick, mumbled, _'Shut up, Yamaguchi'_ from a slightly irked Kei.

(He isn't mad though. Not at all. Or rather, not at Yamaguchi at the very least.)

(His companion still follows it up with a succinct and just as prompt, _'Sorry, Tsukki!'_ and Kei knows that the boy knows he hadn't mean for any snark to be directed toward his friend in the slightest.)

However, that is not the main purpose of his visit. Kei directs his attention to Kageyama Tobio, the star of this attraction, and tests out a theory he's been pondering on for a while now. A few provoking words is all it takes to rattle up the King, and Kei soon finds that Kageyama off-court is nothing more than angry looks and a sharp tongue.

(On the court, however, is an entirely different story. Kei knows this, because he's been watching the setter all this time.

They say jealousy is a green-eyed monster, and Kei would agree that if he were to bottle up the emotions he feels towards the boy renowned as 'King,' it would most definitely be a thick, sickening shade of moss green. Nothing speaks in volumes more than Kageyama's tosses, because Kageyama is raw, unpolished talent, hungry and craving for glory, an existence that screams and begs with his every fibre of his being for _victory_ _victory victory_. And Kei can't help but stand in both awe and envy because as much as this boy thirsts for the gold, he also knows without a doubt in his mind, that for as long as he continues to try with all his might, the boy is very much capable of attaining it.)

(Sometimes, Kei realizes, he finds that they're a lot more similar than he'd like to admit.)

Just as the King stomps away, the undersized brat suddenly catapults himself into the air, catching the volleyball and tossing him an ewer of emotion. It's a flask of liquid orange, like tangerines and marmalade and burnt sienna – confidence, Kei realizes – tinged with contempt as it browns along the surface. _Notice me,_ his feelings demand, like a fearless cry against the world. _Look at me. Toss to me. Fight me._

"You're so noisy with your 'king' this and 'king' that. I'm here too!" Hinata admonishes Kei with a stern glare. "I'll spike the ball over your head at the match!" Kei returns his gaze with a vapid look of his own, and he watches as the smaller boy errs slightly away; his voice weakening, but the resolve and desperation remain intact and very much the same.

(It doesn't get any better between them from thereon. Kei finds himself in the same position as Hinata despite the steep difference in their heights, and he watches as the contempt he harbors for his rival – it's a mutual discrepancy for both parties, Kei thinks to himself, the bad and the good mixing in together all at once – grow darker and deeper with every shout, every spike, every desperate, determined call for _'one more toss'_ because _why?_ Kei's mind asks, always begs the question, and very nearly wants to scream _. It doesn't matter. It's useless. You're too small. You'll get hit. This is only a club. Why do you keep putting so much energy into this?_ _Why do you keep trying?_ )

He walks away.

=X=

Fortune favors the bold, but if one were to think that an uncouth mouth is all that there is to a delinquent spirit, such a person would most definitely be wrong. There is more to Tanaka Ryuunosuke than meets the eye; his brash nature a front that eclipses with his unyielding determination, his bottle is blazing indigo and almost heliotrope ice, just a few sprints short of adulthood. The boy is pure loyalty and devotion to the team and to the game, and his emotions cast a shade as steady as royalty - the steadfastness of the crown, the conviction of a king.

Kei discovers this on his first battle against the ace, head-to-head in a match competing with the veterans of the neighborhood association's team.

"That's what I want," Asahi tells them then, in the middle of the game, a vivid reminder of his right to call for the final toss in that one moment. Asahi is a man of a fragile soul, a glass heart and an outpouring of anxieties, but Kei finds his spirit aglow in a container tied to the wrist of his spiking hand– liquid amethyst and specks of mulberry – courage sheathed by the crystal which surrounds him. "No matter how many times I fail, I think that I'd still want to spike one more time."

He hears a pop and a sizzle, and Kei watches as the flask on Nishinoya's neck turns from the burnished brown of aging foals to the ripened red of burning sanguine, anger and resentment metamorphosed to a distinct passion; unparalleled and unrivalled, a force to be reckoned with.

"Then I'm fine," Nishinoya replies, eases his expression, and struggles to fight back a smile – Kei sees it though, a sheer mien slipping past the libero's defenses – the joy their guardian deity feels is far too much for him to contain. The ewer on his chain gleams a vibrant red like a camellia in bloom. "Just hearing you say that is already enough for me."

Tanaka hands a bottle to Kei a few seconds after Asahi's spike goes through their block – his fingers numb as the ball whizzes past his touch and slams itself brutally against the hardwood court. The referee blows the whistle and the match is stunted for a good few seconds, giving time for the members to recover, talk it out, and give their pieces. Yamaguchi flips another point for the opposing team, and Kei doesn't miss the sheen of admiration that flickers through his eyes for a second. Nishinoya reprimands Asahi for his lack of jump, blaming it on inadequate practice. Sugawara stands aside and chuckles a carefree laugh at the spectacle.

"Don't mind," Tanaka says as he shoves a small carafe into his hands, before he heads back to the side and off to speak to their captain and the shrimp. Kei shines the violet flask against the light before he shoves it into his sweatshirt pocket, the edges of his lips curling upwards only slightly. Before Tanaka leaves, he grins at the tall blond once again. "We'll get it next time."

" _Osu_."

(Valor, he thinks, is a great thing to have by one's side.)

=X=

The ace of Fukurodani is a peculiar creature.

"It's a matter of whether 'that moment' exists for you or not. It doesn't really matter what happens in the future, or if you can win your next match," Bokuto says before he pauses for a moment, and the look in his eyes is of a different kind – a strange, almost alien power, dominance asserted in a means not at all familiar. It's a delve into the unknown; uncharted and untamed. "The joy you feel beating the guy in front of you and when you're able to pull out a hundred-twenty percent of your potential is _everything_."

Kei stands hesitant, figure remaining idly by almost as if brought to the end of his sojourn. Kuroo rests a hand on his hip, and Akaashi moves to the side, hovering a good few inches closer to his figure. Bokuto rambles on and the gym seems to expand around Kei, floor spreading, ceilings rising; the small outside breeze like a hurricane wind flitting past his ears. Very nearly, he falters.

"Once that moment arrives for you," the owlish boy declares with a pointed finger directed his way, "that's the moment you'll be hooked on volleyball."

A clap.

"Okay! I answered your question," Bokuto exclaims, "now help with blocking!"

"All right!" Kuroo chimes in and more than forcibly shoves him by the back. "Come on now, hurry it up."

He learns how to battle straights and a cross - arms raised forward instead of pressed up - and under Nekoma's keen guidance, the grey-haired ace's quick spikes grow hurdled by the makeshift human wall. Bokuto releases an anguished shout, frustration vented from the heat of the game. Kuroo nudges him at the shoulder and shoots what appears to be a devilish grin. Kei returns the gesture, and manages to flash him a smug expression. He smirks.

"Man, that was tough!" Bokuto announces at last. "Good game though, everyone! I saw all your hard work pay off, especially you, Megane-kun. Keep training or I might steal another set from you guys-"

"But you lost this time, Bokuto-san," Akaashi replies, deadpan, and the wing spiker falls into a frenzy as they settle back to their usual whirlwind of a pace.

"Akaashi! You're supposed to back me up here!"

"I apologize for neglecting your efforts. You tried, Bokuto-san."

"Akaashi!"

"Not bad, crow." Kuroo nudges him by the shoulder and procures for him a vial, its hue a bright green.

"Chartreuse?"

"Take it," the raven-haired captain tells him. "It's not for drinking though, if that's what you're wondering. But you should know that by now, right? I figured you were smart enough to tell what this is."

"Of course I can tell," Kei snaps. He feels a blood vessel throb in his temples, and the thresholds of his pride nearly crumble his cool facade. He doesn't like being taken for an idiot.

"Good," Kuroo grins. "I knew you had it in you."

Bokuto pulls them back into his rhythm with a loud bellow of his voice. He tells them he's heading to the cafeteria, and that they ought to rush in order to make it in time to grab a bite to eat. The knee guards are discarded and the sweat drips off his skin; Akaashi, ever the loyal guard, gives him a towel and a canister of water. Kei watches as the couple exchange a few words and Bokuto gives his thanks; fluorescent lighting bathing their figures in a subdued glow.

Akaashi hands him another phial with a gentle bow, the dip of his head. A mellow light green, illustrious and calm beneath the gym light. "Thank you for your time, Tsukishima-san."

"And this one's from me!" Bokuto asserts with a shout. Like Kuroo's, it shines steadfast and unyielding, polished emeralds and the foliage of spring.

 _Ah_.

Camaraderie.

"Thanks," he replies, and wipes the sweat off his brow.

=X=

There are a lot of emotions in Karasuno that may not be noticed by an untrained eye, but Kei's is one of a keen and observant soul, and he watches from the sidelines as vessels are exchanged and spirits transformed and colours pop and splutter and bleed from one thing to the next. This is especially true during their time in Shinzen; the scenes unravel by themselves.

(Kei sees more than he ever lets on.)

He sees Nishinoya and Tanaka offer cruets of affection to their manager Kiyoko almost every other day: a bright beaming carmine, not quite as deep as the libero's sanguine of passion, but just as earnest and just as strong. She is sure to reject them every time –the feelings dim for only a brief instant before returning back to the usual shine – and Kei never quite understands what it is that runs through the minds of his hot-headed upperclassmen _– for if it is not the fear of rejection, then what purpose do they have left to keep on pushing themselves to try?_ – but the middle blocker knows better than to intervene, and doesn't think twice out of stepping away from their affairs.

He sees Kageyama and Hinata call each other ' _idiot!'_ and ' _dumbass!'_ and race each other to the gym every morning for practice. He watches as Kageyama readjusts his tosses every so slightly for the heft of the ball to conform to the snug of their decoy's palm and concoct the perfect spike; he observes as Hinata recalibrates his manoeuvres and steps up his game, easing the setter of his burdens as he charges into battles mid-air in the sky.

He notices the little boy still springs with the same consummate faith as he's always had in his setter; the only difference now, Kei discerns, is that Hinata no longer jumps while closing his eyes.

Later on, as the two accomplish a diversified quick attack in their match against Fukurodani, Kei sees them swap bottles in the brief moment they bump fists. Hinata's cheeks are flushed a tired yet unabashed red, and Kageyama faces him head-on with that blunt, crooked – albeit creepy – grin. A vessel of halcyon glinting beneath the light; their partnership is immortalized in no less than molten gold – and like them it is bright and burning, yearning to be the best.

(It comes as no surprise.)

After the game, Ukai calls them over for one last meeting, giving words of encouragement and a list of final reminders. "Now that it's over, that was definitely our loss," he says, "but there's one thing that's for sure: your plays will be effective at a national level of competition."

There's a smouldering of amber in the pupils of his eyes, and Kei feels the crow's spirit soar at the tenacity of his coach's gaze. Takeda-sensei, too, pitches in his own insights; choosing his words to uplift their spirits, pieces structured a careful fit for the team's motivation. They hand out vials to each member of the team; it's onyx, obsidian – the richest of blacks in the most stable of shades. ' _We're proud of you. Fly high. Karasuno, fight!'_ the tag on it says, scrawled in ballpoint ink with what is unmistakably his teacher's handiwork.

Just as Daichi leads the team to pummel themselves into another round of diving drills, Kei sees the two adults exchange frozen azure from the corner of his eye; the flasks in their hands hold contents that are solid, almost crystalline, aged to perfection by the support they share. Ukai rushes to quickly pocket his ampoule, whereas Takeda struggles to fight against the urge to lean against the larger man with a sigh.

(That, too, comes as no surprise.)

=X=

He learns patience from Sugawara, for Sugawara Koushi is nothing if not kindness incarnate – a patient soul who does nothing but give and give and give his heart and his attention and his time for them. Always for others. Always for the team.

It's during the match point in a set against Aoba Jousai that Kei finds himself being swapped out for Sugawara, and he wonders if the boy's façade will ever crack; if the refreshing aura he emits will turn into a miasma of sorts, beaming smiles that are, in truth, burdened with the heaviness of pressure and responsibility. He knows about the sacrifice, about how much it have risked his pride – a third year setter giving up his spot as a regular starter for a freshman - and contemplates if perhaps this make or break moment of this tournament would, as a repercussion, make or break his senpai's entire volleyball career.

(Three seconds before he steps out of the court, he sees Daichi thrust a caster of steel blue in the other boy's palms. _I believe in you,_ he hears the captain tell his vice, and the trust between the two is more than enough to keep them going. Kei shakes his head, gives the setter a high-five with his free hand, and notes as he sees the older boy's determined smile, that there was never a need for him to worry.)

Later, as the team packs their bags and prepares to ride the bus on their way back home, Kei finds a bottle of pure white tucked neatly at the side of his sports bag.

=X=

They proceed to the finals one day later, charging into battle to face the dreaded Shiratorizawa. The team looks like a wreck; three key players all a bundle of nerves, the second-years dismantling their guards at the sight of cheerleaders, the King a thick-headed idiot who thinks only of dominating the centre court.

Kei hears their captain's salvo for decorum – both an addition to this flurry but an anchor against the storm, his presence a firm ballast to fortify them against the tides – but none of their players are a sight befitting of aplomb. Even Kei feels his nerves go haywire at the notice of his brother's presence when he looks up towards the bleachers, donned in sunglasses and a surgical mask – clearly the worst of all possible disguises – and watches as Akiteru holds up a flagon of aqua and a peace sign. He bites back his tongue in an attempt to maintain composure.

The managers scramble to their places as the starters prep themselves to warm up. There's a shuffle of footsteps, and refreshments are handed out.

"We're counting on you," he hears one of the girls say as they bid the team well wishes – to which Tanaka and Nishinoya yell out a prompt ' _Of course! You got it, Kiyoko-san! We love you, Kiyoko-san!'_ and Hinata butts in with a just-as-eager _'We won't let you down, Shimizu-senpai!' –_ Yachi lagging along not shortly behind. There's a cooler in her hands, which she settles next to the bench leg, and she fishes out a good six bottles before closing it shut.

"These are for the starters," Yachi explains, before she splits the load a four-two with Kiyoko, and she reopens the cooler to grab a couple more spares for the reserve players as well, before heading to her spot at the bleachers. Yamaguchi sends her off with a polite nod, and she returns the gesture with a casual wave. Kiyoko finishes her rounds of distributing to the nearby boys– even offering a smile to the rowdy second-years as she handed them their share. Out of curiosity, Kei inches closer to get a glimpse at the contents.

It is strawberry pink with a dash of what seems like bright caramel, the shade of brilliant gemstones and of _sakura_ in spring. It is flushed skin and beating hearts, the mark of their youth, the after-school skyline. It is liquid cherry blossoms and the raw honesty in champagne, apprehensive rosebuds and the promise of a new beginning. It is radiance, shining, stirring a feeling in his chest, and Kei can't keep himself from it no matter how hard he tries to look away. He holds on.

(In his mind's eye, Kei envisions the sight of their world: of the dazzling, brilliant scope of the court beckoning the ball from beyond the limits of their horizon.)

"For you, Tsukishima-san," the raven-haired manager says and hands him the vial with a quiet, polite bow. Kei takes it gratefully and watches as the sheen of light dances off the surface from the corner of his eye. "The best of luck."

(It is hope.)

=X=

It's amidst the whistle of the referees and the thunder of the crowds that Yamaguchi proffers his feelings to Kei.

He almost misses it. The team huddles close to take a snapshot of their final hurrah when the flask is smuggled into his palm and Yamaguchi nearly slips past his grasp. It is solid crystal and speckled sand, a silver bullet, and glints proud and brilliant beneath the stadium lights.

Kei feels his body freeze at the sight.

Nobody else seems to notice. Daichi is pre-occupied having to deal with an interview together with Sugawara; Hinata is striking a pose for the paparazzi together with Kageyama; Ennoshita is shaking hands with Ukai and Takeda, Kinoshita and Narita applauding and cheering him on; Tanaka and Nishinoya are dancing in triumph and encircle Asahi; Yachi and Kiyoko are packing up the belongings of the team. Even Akiteru, Saeko, and the veterans from the neighbourhood association are engrossed with their cell phones and celebratory hugs. Yamaguchi looks at him earnestly, eyes scanning his expression and waiting patiently for an answer.

"Good game," is all Kei manages to tell him in response. The pinch server wrinkles his nose and smiles a small smile, shy and taut with emotion. He slips his hand into Kei's free one, pulls him into the crowd, and squeezes it gently.

(Neither of them ever mention that it is love.)

Later, when the cheers have died down and the teams are ready to head home with medals hanging on their necks, Karasuno steps outside and heads into the dark. Bags are dropped off at the parking lot and the gear is loaded onto the bus, and the boys spend the time exchanging cheerful words and warm accolades. With a dead battery and a useless pair of headphones, Kei plops onto a nearby bench and waits for time to pass them in silence. Yamaguchi joins him not long afterwards.

They sit together, side by side.

"You played well today," Kei tells him to break the silence, his voice a small splutter that does nothing to disrupt the quiet of their calm. He feels his veins run with heat, and against the darkness of the sky, Kei wonders if he can blame the lamplight for the searing red of his cheeks. The brown-haired boy beside him doesn't seem to notice.

"Thanks, Tsukki, " Yamaguchi replies; his voice is just as small. "You were really cool, too."

Beneath the lambent light, Yamaguchi's eyes are a softer, earthy brown; flickering lashes wisp out and curl towards the edges, not too long and not too short, but enough to leave shadows in their wake. His nose is a gentle slope and a small dip at the bottom of the curve; skin a pale expanse and an open playing field, freckles dusting his cheeks like starlight kisses and an ambient caress. His lips look soft enough to touch. The idea crosses his mind.

Kei unzips his jacket and fishes out a carafe from the pocket of his jersey, slips the totality of his sentiments into the cleft of Yamaguchi's small palm. The colour is the exact same; ardent emotions bottled in the silver of moonlight, the most beautiful of all.

"This…this one," he says at last, struggling to find the right words, tone easing into the cadence of unsteady heartbeats, of trembling smiles and nervous laughter. "This one's for you."

"Thank you," Yamaguchi murmurs, his voice gentle, quiet and content. He holds onto the bottle in his grasp, clutches it towards his chest and leans onto the taller boy's shoulder. Kei doesn't move an inch. The moon shines a dim light as they lie still – waiting until the bus honks to signal their departure, until the captain calls to usher them to go, until the presence of time wears down on their shoulders and ticks loudly against their ears to make itself known, until the beating of their racing pulses eclipse together as one – figures bathed by the luminescence of streetlights in the stead of the barren sky. "I'm glad."

He gives him more than happiness.

* * *

 **Notes:**

-Red camellias symbolize passion and desire. What Kei sees as Noya's passion for the sport can also be interpreted as desire to win and desire /for Asahi/ _WUHU ASANOYA FEELZ_

-I tried very hard to keep it all in line with the canon timeframe for the most part. I tweaked some events to squeeze in the bottle giving in a way that would not compromise what really happened on canon, and I also did my best to be as faithful as possible to the dialogue that was exchanged by the characters by referring to the manga & anime. Choice of words for the lines extracted from the anime were influenced by my own interpretation/translation skills though, so it's not always the exact ones that would show on the subtitles.

 ** _Thank you very much for reading I hope you all have a wonderful 2016 ahead. Happy new year!_**


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